Lessons in Empathy and Faith
by TheRandomScribbler
Summary: In which John sets out to prove to a distressed Sherlock that he is indeed human. Sherlock gains insight into why John stays.


_"Lessons in Empathy and Faith"_

_In which John sets out to show a distressed Sherlock that he is indeed human._

_Stories written in present tense ordinarily irrate me, but for some reason this one was just begging to be written that way._

_First real Sherlock fic. Never been to London so please forgive any inaccuracies; they were unintentional. _

_Might be a load of rubbish but I couldn't get it out of my head._

* * *

><p>"John."<p>

Sherlock enters the room, looming shadow cast upon John's stockier form.

"What is it, Sherlock?" asks John, glancing up over the top of today's news. Probably Sherlock needs something from the store or has just been successful in some venture and he needs to crow about it now. The halting words that come out next prove him quite wrong.

"I don't think I'm quite...not all the way..."

John raises a brow at him. Sherlock speaks falteringly, which is absurdly rare. Fleetingly John wonders if he hasn't got something his system he shouldn't, but he refuses to believe that without evidence and dismisses the idea immediately.

"What, Sherlock?"

The answer startles him; he blinks twice to make sure he heard it correctly-

"Human."

John sets down his paper slowly. "And that...bothers you?"

Sherlock's eyes crinkle at the corners and he nods once, jerkily.

"Sherlock, erm, don't take this the wrong way, but aren't you a self-proclaimed...you know...sociopath?"

Another nod.

"But after all this time," he says. He speaks carefully, not wanting Sherlock to retreat back into the sullen noncommunication to which he was ordinarily so prone. "You have not been bothered by this. Why now?"

"I - it just - seems to matter more - now."

Sherlock fiddles with the buttons on his shirt while John contemplates his next words.

"Something changed?" he asks, still carefully.

"It just matters. Because it does."

Coming from anyone else this response might be deemed inelegant. But coming from Sherlock it means much more.

"I thought you didn't care about...not caring."

John's treading dangerous waters; at any second Sherlock might change his mind, might realize or decide he actually doesn't care, and that will be the end of it.

"Don't you think I should?"

"Well," says John, feeling as though he walked on eggshells. "It wouldn't hurt, but, um..."

He feels as though he is rapidly spinning out of control, grasping for words.

"But you are who you are, you know," he says finally, flushing at the painful cliche.

Sherlock is silent for a moment before he speaks.

"It must be difficult to live with someone devoid of feeling," he finally says quietly.

Ah. Now they're getting somewhere. The source of the conflict is finally beginning to emerge.

Sherlock won't say the words out loud, but his downcast face and anxious spirit are easy even for John to read.

_Because you're here. Because I'm worried you'll think I'm a monster. And once you figure that out, you'll leave._

John sighs softly. The battle has already been won by the mere appearance of such thoughts. But for Sherlock, that won't be good enough. For Sherlock nothing is ever good enough unless it has undergone a series of tests and experiments and been fire-proofed. And even then it's up in the air whether he'll accept it.

John can only hope he can show Sherlock his own humanity, and help him understand why John stays.

"Grab your coat, old boy. We're going out."

* * *

><p>They first set out for a nearby dog shelter. Sherlock surprised him by not objecting to the unsanitary nature of it all.<p>

While John coos over the small animals, kneeling to reach a cage too low fim him and sticking his fingers behind the bars to let the friendly orphans lick his fingers, Sherlock stands silently behind, arms folded. He creates a dark and imposing figure in the brightly lit kennel.

"I couldn't care less if every one of them died, you know," Sherlock murmurs behind him, his voice low and dark.

"I know, Sherlock," John responds.

But he stays a few moments longer, talking to the whimpering animals, petting them, smiling.

Then he stands and indicates that they should depart.

Sherlock can't understand why John would dally there, but John knows these things take time.

* * *

><p>Next John leads them to a hill overlooking a large cemetery. A grieving family clad in black stands around while a coffin is lowered into the grave and a minister makes pronouncements they can't hear.<p>

"How do you feel about this?" John asks.

"I feel nothing at all," Sherlock says flatly, immediately.

John watches for another minute before asking another question. "Do you at all sympathize with the family for their loss?"

Sherlock falls silent. "I...suppose it is...poor fortune...for the family. But whether the man is alive or dead makes no difference to me or my life."

His eyes darken. "You see? I don't care that he's dead. His death doesn't affect me in the least."

A faint grin tugs at the corners of John's mouth. "That's okay, Sherlock. That's how I feel, too."

* * *

><p>John then leads the way to a local park, where large children's a large children's playground is set up, while an uncharacteristically silent Sherlock follows, trailing behind.<p>

They watch the children play for awhile, until John draws Sherlock away so they can speak away from the ears of the mothers who would likely be concerned with the content of such speech.

John leans against an oak, still watching the children from afar. Before him, Sherlock paces restlessly, hands behind his back, staring at the ground as though wishing to burn a hole into it with his eyes.

"Did you see the little girl in the blue plaid?" John asks.

"Dirty blonde hair, dark-haired mother, black shoes, green eyes, five years old, birth mark on left wrist," Sherlock recites rapidly without looking up. "Yes."

"Would you kill her if it suited your purposes?"

Sherlock's head whips up so suddenly John thinks he might have strained a muscle.

"What? No, of course not," he snaps.

John smiles slightly. "I thought not."

Sherlock scowls and resumes his staring match with the ground. "But it doesn't mean I would care if she died."

"One step at a time," John murmurs.

* * *

><p>They reach a different section of the part, more heavily wooded. The foliage in the immediate area has been manipulated to accomodate white decorative material. From where the men stand they can see a paved aisle upon which a white carpet has been laid. The carpet is littered with red petals, which occasionally catch upon the heel or dress of a young woman in white, who glides on the arm of her father. Both faces are radiant with joy.<p>

It ends in a gazebo with a number of finely attired men and women standing, beaming, in wait for her. The face of one man in particular shines the brightest and he steps forward as the woman reaches him, taking her hand in his.

"Fifty-four percent of marriages end in divorce," Sherlock says without preface.

John ignores this. "The woman's name is Charissa Young and her husband's name is Jonathan Lee. Have you read about them in the papers?"

"Why should I?" snaps Sherlock, looking displeased with the whole scene. "There are probably two dozen couples in London being married today. What's this one matter?"

"It matters because Miss Young - about to become Mrs. Lee - has terminal lymphoma," said John quietly. "She has less than a year to live."

Sherlock's eyes pivot immediately to meet John's. "Then why-"

"Because they love each other," John says. "And they'd rather have a few months together than no time at all."

"What an absolute halfwit," Sherlock snips. "Six months of medical treatments and hospital visits and then she's gone. Not even a happy six months - all spent in the hospital or in a fit of worry about paying the bills."

"It doesn't make sense," John agrees. "But to some people, love transcends logic."

"Not to me," says Sherlock darkly. "I think he is about to make the worst mistake of his life. Tell me if there's a followup in the papers, John, in six months about a man throwing himself from a highrise because he married an invalid and now she's dead."

And he turns abruptly, coldly, and stalks off.

John presses his lips together and shakes his head. He knows he shouldn't be surprised or upset, but for some reason he is.

He knows he has no right to expect any other reaction from Sherlock but somehow, the tiniest prick of disappointment stings him. He clears his head of the incident and hurries off to follow his friend.

* * *

><p>Sherlock agrees to just one last stop, and this only because it is on the way. His patience with the whole affair is clearly spent, and John can tell he has been lucky even to get the tall man to go along with him this far.<p>

"Hospital? John, please," Sherlock snorts. His face is a picture of derision and skepticism.

"Hush. Come this way."

And John leads them to the most sterile section of the hospital and for a moment they are silent, gazing through the plexi-glass at the dozens of pink, wrinkled newborns squirming in their individual boxes.

Sherlock's face is impassive. He is watching them, yes, but his eyes have no warmth or affection in them. He is counting them, trying to deduce what their parents look like, wondering if it is scientifically possible to create a means of silencing their cries. He is looking at them just like John, but the thoughts in his head are far removed than the ones John is having.

"What do you think?" John asks quietly.

Sherlock stays silent for a full two minutes. For a moment, as Sherlock's sharp eyes scan the room of precious new life, John thinks something Sherlock might be changing. A flicker of hope lights in him that perhaps Sherlock might be about to say something profound, that might change the dark man from the core-

"A whole new lot of people to cry and hurt," Sherlock said shortly, and John's slim hopes are dashed. "A room of newly born, newly dying. A new crowd of outcasts and criminals."

He turned away from John. "I can't feel anything else for them. I've seen all I need to see. I'm leaving."

And he does.

John sighs softly. This is a bigger upset than the wedding reaction, but he deserves his own disappointment more. He shouldn't have ended the outing on the maternity ward, but even still, he knows it wasn't a waste. He proved what he needed to. The disappointment is lifting; he knew what he risked when he took Sherlock around the town.

In truth, he had never been so naive that he had actually believed a few little things might change Sherlock. Such things take time and it had really only been a fleeting fantasy that the man might see a child and miraculously become changed. He knows in his heart he had never believed it would really happen. He can live with that, because he has known all along it would probably end this way. That wasn't the point of the excursion.

One of the nurses retrieves a baby and hands him to his mother, who has drawn up beside John with her husband to wait for their child. The mother throws John a dazzling smile as she receives her child.

John gives her a wide and genuine smile in return, before he shoves his hands in his pockets and returns to Baker Street.

* * *

><p>Sherlock is flopped into the oversize chair when John arrives, apparently without having even taken his coat or scarf off.<p>

Sighing bitterly, he glances up once at John before engaging in an aggressive staring match with a single word on the magazine lying in his hands. He might be trying to pass it off for reading but even John can see his eyes aren't moving a bit.

"Well, there you have it," Sherlock spits acridly. "Sociopath through and through. A lot of good that did me."

"That isn't true," John contradicts instantly as he takes off his jacket and hangs it in the closet. "You've got it in your head that's what you are, but you're not."

"I more or less failed every one of those 'empathy tests' you attempted to give," Sherlock informs him.

"True...well, partially true," John admits. "But what you haven't realized is that you passed the test before we even began."

Sherlock's eyes shoot up to meet his. "Excuse me?"

John sighs, a smile playing on his lips. "For someone so brilliant you certainly can be daft at times. Look."

He sits down across from his friend, whose brows are knitted together with a rather endearing expression of uncertainty. An unusual sight to be sure.

"If you're setting me up for some long-winded speech on my innate inner goodness, spare me," mutters Sherlock, scowling.

"No, it's much simpler than that. You cared enough to care in the first place. See? Not complicated at all."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. "But the tests-"

"Were only to prove that you cared enough about your humanity to actually do something about it," John cuts in.

"But I _failed_-"

"It doesn't matter!" says John exasperatedly. "Anyway, you didn't fail all of them, but that's beside the point. Do you think a truly inhuman being would have given one whit about their ability to empathize? Of course not. But you did."

Sherlock falls silent for a moment before asking, "And how do you know I wasn't just gathering data?"

"Data?"

"Seeing what would be necessary to be considered an empathetic human. For future manipulative purposes."

John smiles, a twinkle in his eye. "I know because of something different. Something else entirely. Something we can work on later."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and John answers him simply.

"Faith."

* * *

><p><em>From Merriam-Wesbter:<em>

_Faith: (n) firm belief in something for which there is no proof._


End file.
